Checkmate
by TabbyCat33098
Summary: Mycroft has made his move. Now it's time for Sherlock to make his. YAOI. INCEST.


A/N: Currently at a debate tourney and avoiding my NaNo novel, lol. Watched the seventh episode of Elementary, and a Holmescest piece was just dying to crawl out of my cold-deadened fingers. So I let it. If only I was able to write this much and this well for my NaNo, haha... Tbh, I feel like this is a little rushed, and the characterization isn't all that spot-on, but I think I'll get better with time and more Holmes-brothers interaction in the show. Reviews are loved as always, of course. Happy reading!

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**Checkmate**

Ever since they were kids, Sherlock has always been the mulishly stubborn one, and Mycroft the mature but easily-irritated one. There's been a general pattern to their interactions, fueled, Mycroft supposes, by an innate petulant jealousy on Sherlock's part and a pitying, regretful dismissal on Mycroft's. It's been a habitual give and take. Mycroft gives. Sherlock takes. They both criticize the other for not following through the on the other part of the bargain, the take and give. And then they both stomp off huffily with silent vows to avoid the next painful interaction for as long as possible. Mycroft implores, Sherlock rejects. Mycroft begs, Sherlock ignores. It's an age-old tradition between the two of them.

Still, despite the tension and malice Mycroft radiates on the surface, he's always had a bit of a soft spot for his younger brother. He can see things about Sherlock that the detective doesn't yet know. He developed the ability in grade school, after he got bored once and tried to analyze Sherlock for fun, and he's carried it through to adulthood. One look at Sherlock, and he can tell exactly how much Sherlock has had to eat in the past few days, whether he has slept or not, if he is happy or sad or irritated or vexed. Oh, Mycroft's never been good at deducing the way Sherlock has, seeing the small details and piecing together a crime from the blood splatter on the wall or the length of the scar. But he's tuned to his brother, he always has been, and he's good at noticing Sherlock's little tells.

As kids, neither boy truly fit in with the general populace, Mycroft because of his academic aptitude and Sherlock because of his awkward, antisocial personality. The only difference between them is that while Mycroft was able to isolate himself efficiently and effectively from the other children, never letting his loneliness bother him, Sherlock craved the acceptance and attention of the other children. And he got it to, in a manner of a speaking, only the attention he got was incredibly negative and presented itself in the form of bullying and harassment.

Mycroft supposes the childhood bullying is one of the factors of Sherlock's resentment towards him. He's long suspected Sherlock was envious of how Mycroft was so utterly unaffected by the people around him. It's just one of the many things Sherlock holds against Mycroft, one of the many reasons he believes Mycroft is so much better than him.

In the end, that's really all it is. Sherlock can't stand being inferior, even to his own older brother. The thought makes Mycroft laugh, because really? Mycroft, superior to Sherlock? It's Sherlock who's made a name for himself in the world, Sherlock who's being consulted by the New York Police Department, Sherlock whose name is universally recognized. What has Mycroft ever done? Started a restaurant chain? It's not even as successful as he makes it out to be. He's an inherently lazy man, intelligent only as far as books and academics go but entirely out of his element when foisted upon the real world. In reality, it's Sherlock who is superior to Mycroft, and Mycroft wonders how the younger man doesn't see that.

He says as much to Sherlock one night, just after Nigella has returned to England. He wonders aloud why Sherlock is so antagonistic towards him, and if it's really because he brought Nigella to America to intrude on Sherlock's life.

"It's not Nigella," Sherlock says tensely, tinkering aggressively with his computer. "I no longer care about Nigella. You slept with Watson, I slept with Nigella, we're both even as I call it."

"Then what is is?" Mycroft says. "Are you upset about what happened in London? Is this about me sleeping with Joan? Because if you wish me to, I will stop."

"No, no, don't you see?" Sherlock says imploringly. His hands clench, as though he wishes to move them about but is restraining himself. "That's exactly it. Will you stop that?"

Mycroft, to put it lightly, is confused. Sherlock is highly upset, that much is obvious, and it's not because of anything Mycroft has done before. It's because of what Mycroft is doing now. But for the life of him, Mycroft can't figure out what it is he's done. "Stop what?" Mycroft ventures, truly concerned. If he is causing Sherlock distress, he wants to know as soon as possible so he can rectify the situation. After all, above everything, Sherlock is his priority.

Their parents never quite cared much about them or their well-being. So, over time, Mycroft took Sherlock under his wing. Even at that young age, Mycroft knew that Sherlock would grow up to greater things than Mycroft could even dream of, and he wanted this angular, nervous little boy to have as much of a chance of achieving success as possible. If his parents wouldn't care about their son, then Mycroft would do it himself. Sherlock didn't deserve to be neglected the way Mycroft was. Perhaps, though... Perhaps this coddling hurt Sherlock in ways Mycroft couldn't see. Ways that he is only now beginning to understand.

"Stop...stop...stop _mocking_ me!" Sherlock finally grits out through clenched teeth. He slams his laptop shut and glares at the wall opposite, pretending, Mycroft supposes, that Mycroft does not exist. "Stop acting as if you hold my best interests at heart, as if my opinion matters to you. We both know it doesn't, or you never would have gone so far with Nigella even after I told you about her despicable moral character. You don't..._trust_ me, Mycroft, or care about me. You never have. So just...stop."

Sherlock sighs angrily, a short puff of breath exhaled through his nose. "Look what you've done. I've been compromised. Just leave it there, Mycroft. I know you have no interest in discussing such maudlin topics."

Mycroft, however, is stunned. He can't let it go, not now. "Is that really what you believe?" he asks curiously. "That I don't care about you? That I don't trust you?"

"I offer Nigella as evidence," Sherlock says conclusively. Then he grows silent. Mycroft says nothing, because it isn't the kind of sulking silence he would have expected from Sherlock. It's more a brooding silence, a pensive silence, one that indicates Sherlock has more to say.

"If you trusted me," Sherlock beings. "If you cared about me... You would have told me about your leukemia. You trusted Nigella more than you ever cared about me, Mycroft. My opinion just isn't good enough for you."

Mycroft's eyebrows raise in shock. He can't believe Sherlock's revealed so much in such a short time, but now that he has it, he's not going to leave it be. "I didn't tell you because I knew how you would react," Mycroft says gently. "I knew you would-"

"Would what?" Sherlock cuts across bitterly. "Would fly to London to help you? Would willingly give you my own bone marrow? Would use my contacts to get you the best assistance available?" He looks at Mycroft finally, and there is such pain and betrayal in Sherlock's piercing gaze that Mycroft feels frozen to the core. He never knew how much pain and guilt Sherlock had been hiding, never knew how good Sherlock had gotten at hiding things from him, never knew how badly he has failed as Sherlock's protector.

"I knew you would stay up at all hours worrying about me," he whispers after a long moment. "I knew you would disguise your concern with sarcasm and mockery, lying to even yourself about the anguish you felt. I knew you would hate feeling pity for me, feeling sympathy for me."

Sherlock's leg begins to bounce. "And yet, you didn't tell me. I'm still your brother. I still have a right to now. How do you think it feels to know that _Nigella_ knew about your illness before I did? How do you think it feels to realize I'm not even your last choice? I'm not good enough for you, Mycroft. That's how it's always been, that's how it will always be. It would be best to just accept it now and move on." His glare moves to his clasped hands, which rest in his lap.

"That's what it's about," Mycroft breathes, understanding finally dawning. He's surprised it took him this long to figure it out, and he mentally berates himself for not having paid closer attention all this time. "You think you're inferior."

"I'm-I'm _not _inferior," Sherlock scoffs. "Not really. In your eyes I am, though. _I _know I'm better than you, Watson knows it, the whole world knows it except you," Sherlock bites out, but Mycroft can tell he isn't fully convinced by the words he's speaking.

"When we were children," Mycroft says, avoiding the subject for the time being. Sherlock sucks in a breath, but Mycroft ignores it. "When we were kids, you used to engage in silly competitions with me, to prove you were the best, you said."

"They were not silly!" Sherlock protests. "They were necessary!"

Mycroft chuckles. "And you would win them all as well, do you remember?"

"Because you used to throw the games!" Sherlock counters hotly. "You used to purposely fail because you were lazy and simpering and catered to my every whim!"

Mycroft winces at the accusations. He can't deny that he spoiled Sherlock, quite honestly, but this is the one thing he was completely honest in. "You won those because you were truly better at puzzles and mind games than I was," he tells Sherlock. He can see the moment when Sherlock realizes the implications of what Mycroft has just said, can see Sherlock thinking it through: _did I really? No, he's lying, that's all he does. He's lying to save face. But he can't be lying, there's no elevated heart rate, no dilated pupils. He is perfectly at ease. He gains nothing from lying. Still, he _has _to be lying, because if he isn't...__  
_

Mycroft saves him the emotional torment by continuing, "You've always been superior to me, Sherlock. You're just been too blind to see it. You may not agree with me, but you've always been my priority. I...I do trust you, and I care about you more than I should. I think you care about me the same way, Sherlock, but you're just too afraid to admit it, even to yourself. I think you need someone to show that..." Mycroft trails off. He stands up and walks to Sherlock, who lifts his eyes to Mycroft's as the older man comes loser. "That it's okay to fall once in a while," Mycroft whispers, "and it's okay to let yourself be caught." He leans forward and presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips. It's soft and short and not at all satisfying, but a warmth blooms in Mycroft that he didn't know he's been missing.

"It's always been you, Sherlock," Mycroft says, standing back up again. "Always." He turns around and walks out the front door, leaving behind a shellshocked Sherlock. But Mycroft feels content. He's done his job, and all he can do is wait for Sherlock to reciprocate.

It's Sherlock's move now.

**FIN**


End file.
